One Day NewsMrs. Shahar calls this a classroom but we all know it well enough to be a bomb shelter. Thirty small naïve eyes stare at a beautiful journalist on the old television, long brown hair and expensive suit. She reports that a terrorist blew himself up in Beit Lid junction, just a five minute drive from our school. It happened at the big bus station, gray and dirty for so many years, so close its amazing we didnt hear the blast. Although its frightening Im not afraid at all, just glad that there wont be any more classes today.One Day News6 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
The camera focuses on her make-up, curly black eye lashes and powdered cheeks. "Four people died," but all I can hear is "no math homework checkup." She says "authorities are still withholding names," and I hear "no math homework tomorrow either." Then she starts telling the whole thing over again, all the little bits of information the route of infiltration, the name of the bomber, a description of the ar
The Conductor.lunch hour bluesThe Conductor.lunch hour blues7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
LUNCH HOUR BLUES
Lunch was one of those times that the whole of the student body seemed to have to mingle with each other for basic survival. I suppose the other times wouldve been assemblies and graduation but those however lacked a driving force, and embodied just a basic mind-numbing boredom in general. During the hour ten minutes that lunch was daily, every single living thing on campus was all moving towards one goal: sustenance.
Most ate from the canteen, though still a great number braved the cafeteria, and of course there were those who left campus to eat at the McDonalds over on Colorado Boulevard just beneath the freeway overpass that was a good couple miles away. Had to have a car, really, to get there and back in time to hit sixth period, if you cared that much. Wasnt difficult to come by, a car, then, but most of the poor kids would still sprint over there for a shake and some lard-injected french fries. It was funny watching em try to beat the lat
lounge: 1Rachel wakes, the crossing-over just as gentle as the previous night's passage. The sheets lay rumpled and cold beside her. Wednesday isn't a baking day but he's already gone. She doesn't follow him anymore, tracing his scent down the sidewalks past shady vendors and impenetrable bookstores. The latter is what he seems to like the most, drowning in years of solidified dust. It is bitter and dry to her nose and she can smell it in his hair for days afterward. She stays away.lounge: 16 years ago in Spiritual & Occult More Like This
This place is not her home, but she has been here more often than not these past months--enough to watch a Northwestern winter diminish. Yellow-green shoots have risen up from the perpetually wet earth, signs that someone many years ago thought narcissus and crocus were suitable places between the grass and crumbling brick of the Lounge's courtyard. She watches them over a fresh cup of coffee, letting the aroma extinguish that of the city. Others come and go, greeting her with hands not laden with plates or mugs. Sh
And The Clock Ticks On . . .And the clock ticks onAnd The Clock Ticks On . . .7 years ago in Horror More Like This
As a man like silk and ash sits contemplating the ornate linen of his table, tracing the patterns of an ivory napkin with his butter knife. Back and forth and round about, the swish of cloth and silver echoes between the chairs, frolicking with the oscillation of candlelight on knife and chair-back, while the mans face glows in the dim like polished alabaster.
Across the empty expanse of the table sits a woman, bent rapt upon the inspection of her empty china. She has the look of a mannequin posed for photography, hands folded tidily upon her lap, lips more silent than dust in an empty attic.
They are utterly alone.
Satine, love, says the man, shattering the heavy silence into near-tangible fragments. Should you fancy the opera tonight?
There is no response from the woman, though a glimpse through the shroud of her parted gold hair shows a look of unwavering contempt.
You cannot still be mad, love? entreats the man
A Handful of MothsThe mountain is a pincushion for cactus. It looks like some irritated desert deity just threw saguaros like spears at the hillside until s/he ran out of spears.A Handful of Moths4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It's movie night, and that means that tires crunch through the gravel at the drive-in to see the latest stars-and-explosions movie. It's robots tonight, great city-wrecking things with Hollywood voices and gears spinning behind their ear plates. That means that we pile into the cars and go, plaid rugs flung over the backs of the seats, plaid shirts over tank tops, team bumper stickers. Go Team! It's cooled down to seventy-five degrees and the condensation on my soda cup drops down to gather between my skin and the plastic.
We talk and talk and pay our dollars and park. The blanket gets tossed out like a bigtop tent and flattened in the bed of the pickup. The bed door falls down on its chains with a clunk.
The screen looms in front of the cars, cream-colored and silent. The logo of the drive-in dances around it like a screensave
A Perspiring Incantation It was a long way to the witchs pandemonium, a long way to the witchs cathedral and years always leave me by the time I summit its peak. Even as I travel the river Styx into her fangs, I wonder how the witch would appear this time, having met her many ways through the reoccurrences. Sometimes, the witch presented herself as a relic, her squall shawls bundled about her in stitch briar patches, strangling loose ends that stippled her image. Sometimes she appeared as a kindly neighborhood crone, the kind that bakes cookies for little children. Other times she would appear as a mountain-bound Baba Yaga with harrowing eyes and fury flagrantly displayed until rumors of her insanity became her trademark illusion. Her most unnerving performances yet were when she appeared an innocent child.A Perspiring Incantation6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Motionless, my stoma
Jesus and LazarusJohn 11:1-45Jesus and Lazarus5 years ago in Humor More Like This
"Yo, Lazarus. Wake up."
The still form of Lazarus, Jesus's closest friend, remained dead on his rock slab. Jesus frowned, hummed to himself, fed a few twigs into the small fire he maintained in the cave.
"I'm not kidding," he intoned. "I command thee: back from the dead. Now!"
Nothing. Jesus sighed. He was new to the miracle business. Mary'd contacted him four days prior or was it six? No matter. A few days ago she'd told him Lazarus had fallen ill.
Wow. This wasn't "ill". This was stone-cold dead. He reached out and felt for a pulse, some trace of warmth. Nothing. He sighed again.
"Father? Help me out here? I kinda promised some folks I'd do this thing. I'm gonna look pretty lame if I don't "
He blew out his cheeks, looked around the cave for something that might lend inspirati
AbstractionAbstractionAbstraction9 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
Abstract, abstraction and so on are words thrown around all the time in poetry, and often without much solid – or at least congruent – meaning.
An abstraction is literally a 'taking-away' from something, a vaguer look at a solid concept. For example, we could say that 'animal' is an abstraction from 'cow', or that 'person' is an abstraction from 'telephone repairman'.
An abstraction may also be an abstract noun, though, such as 'love', 'peace', 'death', 'fortune', etc.
Or it may be an abstract verb, such as 'eat' or 'move' or 'take'. More concrete verbs might be 'chew', 'walk' and 'grab', or might entail phrases such as 'eat with cutlery', 'move on foot' or 'take in his hand'.
The logic is that the word is a non-specific generalisation based on an observed event or series of events. All you need to know is that an abstract word is like using a generic template. Saying 'it was love' calls upon well worked, common (trite) concepts of what 'love' means. It contains noth
Burning ButterfliesBy the end of the second week, we had little choice but to take a shotgun approach. The fault of this circumstance lay solely in our hands, rough with procrastination. We had held off on beginning the project through sheer self-interest, our thoughts divided from the task much, if not more so, then our individual attentions to the course. I had taken the course in hopes of finding some significance in my career path. She was simply bored by hard science and statistics. In terms of inspiration and drive, both of us would be found decidedly wanting. In the end, that's what drove our two desks, separated by the margin of twelve other able bodies, together.Burning Butterflies5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
We plucked at the idea of our topic for the better part of our first day in the plush mossy carpet of her room. The crowns of our heads locked in hopeful silence for something impressive, or at the very least B worthy. As she pondered over the finer threads on her pillow case I decided simply that her room was too vibrant for
Play TimeThe ghost found Sanchez in the garden. Whispy tendrils of ecto-stuff swirled around his waist and legs, rising up his torso like thick ropes of cigarette smoke.Play Time7 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
Sanchez stopped raking leaves and stood silently, eyes closed. A moment later he nodded, as if acknowledging a message. The whisps withdrew immediately. He finished raking within minutes, picked up a small trowel, and carried the tools across the garden to a ramshackle plastic shed where he stored them carefully. He stripped off his gloves and threw them into shed-shadows. Stretched, back muscles crackling.
Time for ghosts.
Sanchez trudged back to the house, lights springing up in the twilight around him, fireflies emerging as if from thin air. He clumped up the front stairs, across the weathered porch, and pushed open the ancient oak door with a creak. In the kitchen he opened a beer, wiped his brow, and made his way to the small but cozy living area where his TV and recliner lived. In one massive draught he swallowed half the
The Language of Mom- JoshieI don't know about your family, but my family has its own language. No, scratch that. My MOM has her own language. We all speak it pretty fluently, so I took the liberty of preparing a crash course in the Language of Mom.The Language of Mom- Joshie7 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
You've Got Another Thing Coming:
definition: You would do well to never speak in my presence again. Go to your room right now before I actually DO give you another thing coming.
usage: "If you think I was put on this earth to pay your parking tickets, you have got another thing coming, Lindsay Christine Brooks."
Young Lady/Young Man:
definition: You are in an unbelievable amount of trouble. You are about to endure a lecture so long that I may well have another child before it is over. Sit down and shut your mouth.
usage: "Where in Heaven's name were you, young lady?"
What Were You THINKING:
definition: This is a trick question. There is only one acceptable answer: absolute silence. Hanging your head is good. Giggling is a death sentence.
usage: "You were gone for five
How to Attract Attention on dAHow to Attract Attention on dA8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Are you thinking of joining deviantART, but are not sure what to do? Have you come to this guide after meeting your first dilemna: What to call yourself?
Well here’s the answer: Who cares?! If you’re female, it should be ‘pink’ + your name + a few random numbers. If you’re male, it should be ‘gamer’ + your name + ‘666’ [or if that’s already taken, a few random numbers]. Or perhaps you’re going to be boring, and actually think about what you call yourself. Whatever happens, within half an hour, you’ll be joined up to deviantART.
30 minutes up? Keep reading!
So you’ve joined the largest online art community on the internet, but where to go from here? Well, the first thing that must be clarified is that you DON’T need to get popular. That comes later. What you need first is devious friends, because – from the moment you join – you’re officially classified as a complete and utter lo
The meat came home The pounding on door of the Dick Tracer agency came at the dead of night. 1.32Am. I remember it clearly, cause it was the night before Christmas and the old lady had just evicted me from my home and her life. I was watching a god awful Christmassy porno, Santa Visits 2. Having never seen the prequel, I was understandably lost in the plot. At this moment, Santa had reached the double Ds in his alphabetic list and Miss Daisy Delight was about to convince him she wasnt a bad, bad girl. I wasnt convinced everyones guilty.The meat came home6 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
I pulled up my pants and grabbed a taser hidden in the bottom left drawer. Ive had my share of pissed husbands kicking down on my door over the years. Unfortunately, the bastards that were stupid enough to get caught were also the ones stupid enough to pull this kind of stunt. A few thousand volts always helps in the case of dim bulbs.
Sweet Tea in the SouthIn the summer I'll hear them chatter and babble and chuckle and cluck like two frivolous chickens in pink polka dot dresses. I'll be peering down aisle nine and see neat rows of tea and crunchy, sugary biscuits they can shove into their mouths, indulge in their spoken virtues as little crumbs sprinkle onto their laps. They're heaving tomatoes drenching under summer sun, the crows feet under their baby blue eyes lapping up experience in the years they've lived down here, where sweet tea is a delicacy swimming around fat ice cubes. They'll haul their modern wagonwheel through the maze of eye twinkling treats, chirping for their tomato faced young while waddling away.Sweet Tea in the South4 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
I'll see them breezing past me in a feeding frenzy, two, three, four little chicks hustling over to their rather plump parents. They'll lug their crusted heels down the path, pecking for some chocolate chip cookies or those spicy pork skins with really mind boggling logo designs.
T h e T h o r n w o o d .Once upon a time, as most fairy tales start, I saw a woman with the most beautiful hair.T h e T h o r n w o o d .6 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
It bathed her rose pearl skin in a sea of dusky ebony, dark golden eyes pinning me to the ground with rusted iron stakes that her delicate hands didnt need to drive into my feet -- I did so by my own will.
They all told me never to go up into the forest, the thornwood, where light was so frightened of the creatures there that it flat-out refused to penetrate the black leaves and half-rotted limbs that made the forests canopy. They told me that the trees somehow stood by an aberrant force, by unseen fishing lines, criss-crossed in intricate xs across their moldy trunks. They told me to beware the thorns.
I told them that no such things existed.
They told me that they were there. I just couldnt see them.
I grew up here, in the only town at the base of the mountain. The stories used to scare me as a kid; the stories that I learned were only meant to keep adventurous brats like
Ah Ah Ah Mic TestIt's 8:34. I wake up covered in covered morning light. I don't know where I amAh Ah Ah Mic Test5 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
but I feel that this should feel very familiar to me, there are bottles strewn
all about and the bed is unmade, I am sleeping on a pile of clothes on a pile
of mattress. The shutters are down, I can't see outside and I think, "this is
all very symbolic".
I think of drifting back to sleep but don't tell myself any stories.
I don't get up until 10:11. This is appropriate. The cradle's too warm, the
world's too cold, I am bored with myself and there is nothing for me here. I
wonder why I stay. The chill doesn't strike me much, even in December this
place never freezes. I walk to the bathroom, my parents' room's door is
closed. My mother works, she is not home, my father does nothing, he is always
at home. The obligatory bathroom is next door. I don't turn on the lights, the
fractured relay of mosaic glass is comforting, mesmerizing. I look in the
mirror and see dreams filter through in recollection of myself an
Angel's GamesThey say that this city was made by Angels, and sometimes I am almost inclined to agree.Angel's Games5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The graveyard is filled with them, weeping stone tears from blank eyes, hands spread wide in supplication, or clasped in grief. They fill this city. Watching from rooftops and doorways. Clinging to the corners of old buildings or sitting silent in hidden courtyards, guarding the ruined tumbles of houses no-one ever bothered to rebuild.
Stone angels watching over a city of dust and ashes. Choked with the burning of a thousand fires, the soot still clinging to the church-towers that ring out with the mournful pealing of bells.
Many wars have passed through this place, and I have no doubt there are many more to come. I have seen my fair share of sorrow here. I have watched as piece by piece the city is rebuilt, the wreckage gathered, the wound mended. Its people are as old and dark as the place itself. Distrustful, generous, proud, a mess of contradictions, and yet you find yourself expecting nothing
A Little RevolutionIt smells of candy dust in here. Gum wrappers shine bright blue and pink in a line of light that sneaks through the cardboard on the windows. Ira Stein puts a finger to his lips:A Little Revolution6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
shh. . . he says, tell no one.
There are alien wars frozen on the shelves under magazine titles made of laser-beams. But we ignore the comic-books, because Ira tells better stories.
shhhh. . . he says, because no-one will understand. Our little secret, yeah?
In the classroom there is Plexiglas in the windows instead of real glass. It gets scratched. We scratch our names in it. The yellow desks are bunched up next to each other in groups, their surfaces soft with pencil-lead scribbles that come off on our forearms and spread black to our faces from our hands. Sarah draws a heart on her desk and inside it says I+A. Nicky says that is gross and not the way to think abo
For the Good of the SpeciesFor the Good of the Species9 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
"It's your first day, isn't it?"
"Yes. Ah, actually, I'm just an intern. I'm supposed to be working with Dr. Simonetti."
"Simonetti? He's on the second floor. Just take those stairs, then follow the hall to room 216. The door says 'Director of Genetic Integrity', you can't miss it."
"Thanks! I'd better hurry, I'm almost late."
Paul tramped up the stairs, plastic soles announcing his hurry to everyone in the echoing, cold-walled office. The second floor had a carpet, thank the Presidency, and he was at 216 before he had time to process it. He wiped the sweat from his hands and knocked.
"Come on in."
Simonetti, a large man in a brown-mustard suit, looked up from behind the desk. He rose, shook Paul's hand; his grip engulfed Paul's slim fingers, wrapped around his whole palm. "The new intern, right? Great to have you, great. Always glad to see youngsters take an interest in their government. So many people are happy to just let us work that they forget there's no 'us' and 'them', you know
Far-fetchedAn elf lay in a tree, comfortably as if it was a hammock. A dwarf stoked their campfire and lit his pipe. The forest was quiet but for the rustle of leaves and the occasional hoot of owls. The night spun lazily above them.Far-fetched4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
'Do you ever wonder who lives in the sky?' said the elf after a while.
'Birds,' grunted the dwarf.
'No, I mean the people up there.'
'All the poor buggers who fell up into it, I would imagine.'
The elf sighed. 'Where do your gods live?' he asked.
'Our gods are wrought in stone,' replied the dwarf. 'What would they do up there? There's nothing to do, nowhere to stand.' He paused, then added 'Nothing to hit with an axe.'
Silence again, until the elf thought he had found an angle to spark his friend's interest.
'Do you think it would be possible to fashion some sort of boat? A sky boat?'
The dwarf chewed his pipe in contemplation.
'Possibly,' he conceded. 'But it would be a life's work without purpose. There's nothing up there.'
'I disagree. I dreamt last night of all m
SemicolonsAs "Sentence Splicers"Semicolons5 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Semicolons separate things. Most commonly, they separate two main clauses that are closely related to each other but could stand on their own as sentences if you wanted them to. Semicolons are sometimes thought of as sentence splicers: they splice sentences together.
It was below zero; Jenny wondered if she would freeze to death.
It was below zero. Jenny wondered if she would freeze to death.
One reason you may choose to use a semicolon instead of a period is if you wanted to add variety to your sentence structure; for example, if you thought you had too many short, choppy sentences in a row, you could add variety by using a semicolon to string together two main clauses into one longer sentence. But, when you use a semicolon, the main clauses should be closely related to each other. You wouldn't write, "It was below zero; Jenny had pizza for dinner," because those two main clauses have nothing to do with each other. In fact, the other reason to use
swimming, not drowning.when you're waist-deep in a love you know you shouldn't have even dipped your toes into, you spend a lot of time cursing the current. you try to stamp your feet but find the sand's up to your ankles and seaweed is tied in bows around your calves. the waves begin to climb, breaking on your collarbones and splashing your face. breath seems to take up more space in your chest. you bring air into your body in the shortest bursts possible and it spills back out like machine gun fire.swimming, not drowning.3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
sometimes, though-- mostly in the first hours after sunrise, when you're alone with the space she inhabited on your couch and her perfume on the back of your knees-- you plunge your face below the surface and smile up at the sky, dragging your arms through the water just to feel its resistance against your skin. you pretend that holding your breath is a decision you're choosing to make rather than a necessity for survival. you pretend the waves are lively and invigorating instead of terrifying and beyond your c